


Crime and Punishment

by AutisticWriter



Series: Mental Illness Headcanons [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Quill, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Brotherly Affection, Crying, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Physical Abuse, Razors, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Umbridge is a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is sent to Umbridge for detention, but that really is the last of his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime and Punishment

_I must not talk in class._

George had only just written the words on the parchment, when a hideous prickling pain began to shoot through the back of his left hand. Looking down, he was horrified to see the skin looking red and irritated, kind of like his arm did after he . . .

The ink that was coming out of the quill was bright red. The irritation got worse, and it took George a few seconds longer than it should have to realise that the ink was his own blood. Somehow, the quill was cutting his hand open. He felt sick. How was this not considered torture?

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

He continued to write, and soon the words had been gouged in the back of his hand, the skin bright red and shining with blood. The parchment was shining with blood too, the words glistening upon the page. His stomach wouldn’t stop churning; he wondered if he was going to be sick.

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

After he finished every line, the wound would heal over, leaving his hand just looking sore, until he wrote it again, and the words cut his hand open all over again. He was feeling incredibly nauseous now, and was very glad he hadn’t eaten much at dinner. He glanced up at Umbridge; she was smiling to herself as she made notes on a sheet of parchment. She was so bloody evil. He considered taking his wand out and hexing her, but he didn’t seem to be able to move.

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

The pain was excruciating, so bad that his eyes were stinging and he had almost forgotten the pain in his upper arm. He blinked, willing himself to not break down. He couldn’t cry, not in front of Umbridge.

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

He wished he wasn’t here alone. He wished he could have Fred, or Lee, or even Ron by his side, just someone to be beside him, to support him, so he didn’t have to face _her_ on his own. This was so horrible.

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

Before George quite knew what was happening, tears started to dribble down his cheeks as blood ran down his wrist. He knew Umbridge was watching, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop. He was crying like he always did when he cut himself, sobbing silently, but with seemingly never ending tears, except now it was even worse, because now someone else was watching, and he didn’t want to be doing it right now.

 _You deserve it._ A thought popped into George’s head, the same thought, the same sly, taunting voice that always appeared when he was cutting. He bit down on his lip to stop himself making any noise, knowing the thought was right.

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

Umbridge was smiling at him, a horrible smile that made him want to run away as fast as he could. He bit down on his lip to stop it wobbling, trying to breathe through his congested nose. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

_I must not talk in class._

George wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. All he knew was that, eventually, Umbridge was talking to him, telling him to put the quill down. His hand shaking, George laid the quill down on top of the parchment, and looked up at her.

“Let me have a look at your hand,” she said.

Even though he didn’t want to touch her, George held out his hand, dripping congealing blood onto the desk.

“Yes, that looks like the message has sunk in nicely,” she smiled, and George wanted to curse her. “Will you be disrupting my lessons again?”

George shook his head, wishing he could stop crying. Tears were dripping off of his chin and splattering the front of his robes.

“Good, that’s good. You see, naughty children deserve to be punished, don’t they, Mr Weasley?” Umbridge said, in a horribly sweet voice that made George cry harder.

George nodded, tucking his hand inside his robes. He searched for his handkerchief inside his pocket, and his fingers accidentally grazed the edge of the razor blade, but he didn’t feel the pain. Finding his handkerchief, George wrapped it around his still bleeding hand, and forced himself to look up at Umbridge. Even though his vision was blurred with tears, he knew she was smiling.

“Have you learned your lesson, Mr Weasley?”

George nodded again; he was willing to agree to anything if it meant she would let him leave.

Then, to his immense relief, she finally let him go, and he ran from the room without looking back.

Wiping at his face, George ducked into the boys toilets, and was relieved to find it totally empty. George shut himself into the cubical at the far end and slumped onto the closed toilet seat. He unbuttoned his robes and his shirt, and slid his shirt down his arm to his elbow, exposing his upper arm. It was littered with scars, some faintly white against his skin, others red and scabbed.

As more tears slid down his cheeks, George grabbed the razor, and dragged it across his skin. He hissed through the pain, suddenly not noticing the pain in his hand anymore. He cut again, feeling warm blood trickling down his skin, and, leaned his head against the cubical wall and cried softly until he fell asleep.

\---

George woke up with drying blood all over his arm, and a horrible pain in his neck. Both his hand and his arm were throbbing, and his eyes were swollen and made it hurt to blink. And then he remembered what had happened, and he was left blinking back tears all over again.

But then he felt pissed off with himself, wiping at his eyes irritably. How could he have cried over that? He’d hurt himself much worse than a cut on his hand in the past, but he’d never cried over it. And how had he cried in front of Umbridge? He was pathetic. He was a loser. He was a wimp . . .

. . . and then he suddenly jammed his finger into the freshly healing cut on his arm, gritting his teeth against the pain. And he told himself he deserved it and somehow managed to stop himself crying. He wouldn’t cry again. He’d done enough crying lately. _That’s because you’re so pathetic,_ he thought.

He quickly cleaned the patch of the floor where his blood had dripped onto it, and flushed the toilet, even though he hadn’t been. Then he went up to the sinks, and had a look at his reflection. His eyes were red, bloodshot and puffy, and his face was pale and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Scrubbing the blood from his fingers, and trying hard not to cry as the water stung his hand, he saw that the words had practically faded, leaving the back of his hand only slightly red and irritated. _I don’t know why you were making such a fuss about it._

Once his hands were clean, George checked his watch. It was midnight, over an hour after Umbridge had let him go. That explained why he still felt so tired; he must have only been asleep for fifty minutes. He wondered if Fred and Lee and their other dorm-mates would be wondering where he was. _Probably not, because they don’t really care about you._ George dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, and then splashed his face with cold water. It didn’t make him look much better.

He trailed through the empty corridors, half expecting to run into Filch and get told off, but he didn’t meet anyone. Dragging his feet, George felt slightly faint, banging into doorways and tripping over every threshold, almost like he was drunk. At one point, he passed Peeves, but even the poltergeist didn’t bother him. He could have sworn that Peeves gave him a slightly pitying smile.

When he finally got back to the common room, the Fat Lady was asleep, and he had so yell the password before she heard. As the Fat Lady muttered at him, George checked his bloody, handkerchief-wrapped hand was tucked out of sight, and climbed through the portrait hole, stumbling slightly.

He had sort of hoped that the common room would be empty, but, not exactly to his surprised, he saw that Fred and Lee were sat by the fire, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were all crowded around a table in the corner, apparently drowning in work again. He tried to creep past them all, and headed for the stairs, but he had only made two steps in their direction before Fred looked up and saw him.

“George, where have you been?” His twin cried, rushing across the common room towards him.

He shrugged his shoulders, avoiding Fred’s eyes. “Detention.”

Lee had joined Fred’s side, and he let out a small gasp. “She had you in detention for seven hours?”

George nodded, but the looks Fred and Lee gave him were somewhat doubtful. He sighed, feeling his eyes prickle with tears, wishing they weren’t going to start doubting him. But then, to George’s immense relief, Harry believed him.

Putting his quill down, Harry turned around to face them, and said, somewhat bitterly, “She kept me in for that long, Lee. I think that’s the standard length of Umbridge’s detentions, to be honest.”

Lee sighed. “She’s a right bitch, isn’t she?”

George forced himself to smile. Fred put his arm around him, and George leaned weakly against him, feeling like he had no energy left at all.

“What’d she get you to do?” Fred asked.

“Just write lines,” he said, and George saw Harry and Ron exchange a very significant look.

Had Harry told his friends what had happened in his own detention? Hermione didn’t seem to be sharing their look, but Harry and Ron . . . their faces really looked like they knew his punishment was more than just lines. He just hoped they wouldn’t say anything; he didn’t want Fred to know what had happened. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

Fred smiled weakly. “That’s good, I guess. Look, mate,” he sighed, “I’m sorry Umbridge singled you out. It wasn’t fair.”

“We tried to tell her exactly what happened, that we were all messing about, but she wouldn’t listen,” Lee added, scowling.

“She never listens,” Hermione said. “She wouldn’t even believe Harry when he said about You-Know-Who. She only hears what she wants to hear. She’s a complete cow.”

George smiled. His eyes were stinging again. He kept his hand clenched inside his pocket, wishing his skin would stop burning. _Don’t cry,_ he told himself as his bottom lip started to wobble, _don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._ He couldn’t break down in front of everyone, he just couldn’t. He had to be strong, be brave, be tough. He bit his lip to stop it wobbling, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—_

“Are you all right, George?” Ron said.

Tears suddenly were cascading down his cheeks. Without saying a word, George pushed past his friends and brothers and ran upstairs to his dormitory, ignoring that they were all calling after him. He tried to be as quiet as he could, not wanting to wake the two boys already asleep in the dormitory, but it was hard to control the sobs now they’d started. Not bothering to get undressed, he kicked his shoes off and got into bed, pulling the hangings closed. He curled up on his side, stuffing his hand into his mouth to muffle the sobs that, just like before, just wouldn’t stop.

The dormitory door suddenly opened, creaking loudly like in the crappy Muggle horror films his dad had made him watch once. George heard tiptoeing footsteps, and then his brother’s voice.

“George?” Fred whispered.

“Go away,” he whispered back, his voice wobbling.

“What happened?”

“Go away.”

“Seriously, mate, I want to help.”

“Well you can’t! There is absolutely nothing you can do to help me. Just fuck off and leave me alone.”

“George?”

“Fuck off, Fred!” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“George?”

Now he could hear Lee’s voice. He sighed shakily.

“Fuck off!”

“Georgie, please,” Fred sighed shakily. “Look, Harry told us what Umbridge did to him in his detention, so we know what’s wrong with you and we want to help. Please let us help.”

Fred pulled open the curtains around his bed, and George didn’t bother to fight anymore. He could see panic and concern on Fred and Lee’s faces, which only made him feel worse. He wiped at his eyes, but that didn’t stop more tears trickling down his cheeks. George tried to smile, but he knew it ended up more like a grimace.

“Fine,” he said huffily, but he knew that they knew he wasn’t being serious. Fred smiled weakly.

Pretending to argue, George let Fred and Lee drag him back down into the common room. Ron, Harry and Hermione were still there, but now they were all stood up as through waiting for something. Hermione was holding a bowl of something in her hands.

George wiped at his eyes again as Fred and Lee eased him into a seat. Hermione sat down beside him, showing George the contents of the bowl she was holding. It was full of an oddly thick, bright yellow liquid.

“Put your hand in this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Murtlap Essence.”

“Why?” Fred asked.

“It’ll help reduce the pain,” Hermione said, like she was reading from a book.

“It really will,” Harry said with a forced smile. “It really helped me.”

George didn’t totally believe them, but he decided to trust Hermione, and, for the first time, George removed his hand from his pocket and unwrapped the handkerchief, exposing his red, swollen hand. Fred gasped slightly at the sight of his sore hand, and Lee looked slightly nauseous, but Harry, Ron and Hermione looked stony-faced, as though they had expected this. George let Hermione take hold of his arm at the wrist and ease his hand into the thick liquid.

It stung for a few seconds, but then the cool feeling of relief spread through his sore skin, and he sighed. George smiled weakly and wiped his eyes, finding that the tears finally seemed to be stopping.

“Did you cry?” He asked Harry, who had sat down beside him.

“When?” Harry said, looking confused.

“When she was making you use the quill. Did it make you cry?”

Harry stared at him for a few seconds, as though he was trying to think of a response. “Well, it really, really hurt, but, no, it didn’t make me cry.”

“I cried in front of her,” George said, gritting his teeth. Sudden anger pulsed through him, but it wasn’t anger at Umbridge; it was anger at himself. “I actually cried in front of her. I’m so fucking pathetic!”

His eyes stung, and he had to blink rapidly to fight back tears all over again. Fred pulled him into a tight hug, so tight it hurt his sore arm; George bit back a wince. Lee patted his shoulder, and Hermione, still holding his wrist, gave his arm a squeeze. Ron and Harry both looked at each other, as though they didn’t know how to react. It suddenly occurred to George that he had never cried in front of either of them before.

“You are not pathetic, George,” Ron said, so firmly that George wondered if it had even been Ron who spoke.

“You know, I _wanted_ to cry,” Harry said, his eyes a bit too wide. “It was complete agony. I just don’t cry very easily. There’s nothing wrong with crying.”

“But it’s like I let her get to me,” he insisted, feeling his lip trembling.

“George,” Hermione said. “Look, Umbridge is literally torturing students for trivial things. Do you really think she cares that you started crying?”

George shrugged. He knew Hermione was right, but he didn’t want to admit it.

“S’pose not,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” Hermione said, smiling now.

“We need to tell someone about this,” Fred said.

George’s heart started racing, and he saw Harry gulp.

“No we don’t,” they said together.

“But we can’t let her get away with this!”

Ron sighed. “Me and Hermione have been through this with Harry, mate, trust me, and he keeps saying that Dumbledore has bigger things to worry about.”

“Well he does,” Harry said indignantly.

The others must have sensed that this was a sensitive area to be talking about, because they stopped going on about it. George was grateful. He didn’t feel like talking right now.

For a few seconds, George wanted to tell them everything: about the constant thoughts that he was useless, about the emptiness he always felt, about the feeling he had that life wasn’t worth living, about how he cried himself to sleep most nights, and certainly about the cutting. But then he remembered why he never told them in the first place, and kept his mouth shut.

After a while, George found himself getting drowsy, his head nodding against Fred’s shoulder. Fred patted his shoulder and smiled.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

George nodded.

Fred turned to Ron and his friends. “Thanks for helping, guys.”

Ron patted George’s shoulder, Harry nodded, and Hermione smiled.

“No problem,” she said.

“Come on, Georgie,” Fred said as brightly as he could. “Let’s get you to bed.”

George felt incredibly spaced out, hardly noticing what was going on as Fred and Lee helped him to his feet and up the spiral staircase to their dormitory. He didn’t get changed, collapsing into bed fully clothed. Fred drew his curtains for him, and George lay sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He waited until his twin and his friend were in bed themselves before he decided to speak.

“Fred?” He whispered.

He heard Fred roll over. “Yeah?”

George opened his mouth to tell him everything, but . . . he just couldn’t.

“I, just, uh . . . nothing.”

Fred sighed. George sighed too.

Despite the pain, George eventually drifted off to sleep, part of him hoping that he wasn’t going to wake up.


End file.
